


Madness

by LadyRhiyana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Forbidden Love, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29847420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: “Hush,” he whispers. “You don’t want your husband to hear, do you?”**Brienne's first betrothed survives the spring sickness. A year after her marriage, the Kingslayer comes to Nightsong.
Relationships: Brienne of Tarth/the unnamed Caron boy, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 258
Kudos: 260





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwoKnightsOneSword](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoKnightsOneSword/gifts).



> For TwoKnightsOneSword, who prompted for the recent smut-swap: "forbidden relationship (in whatever way you'd like to interpret that - go nuts, if you wish)"
> 
> I've aged Brienne up - let's say she is about 18, and was married when she was 17. In the books it says she would have been married a year after her first flowering, which - no. Just no.

_What is honor compared to a woman’s love?...We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy._

A Game of Thrones, Chapter 60, Jon VIII

“Hush,” he whispers, his fingers pressed lightly against her lips. “You don’t want your husband to hear, do you?”

It’s madness. The warmth and weight of his body, the feel of him deep, deep inside her, the wine-tinged sweetness of his mouth –

“I don’t –” she breathes in desperately, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body not her own. “I don’t care,” she says, “I don’t care –”

He’s cast a spell on her, awakened some animal madness within her – there’s something deep and dark coiling within her, and she races madly after it, lost to all rational thought, all her honour and responsibilities abandoned –

**

“You are welcome to Nightsong, Ser Jaime,” her husband says. “Any knight of the Kingsguard is welcome at our board.”

“Even one such as me?” the Kingslayer asks.

Her husband’s smile withers. The Kingslayer’s smile is sharp as a knife.

“Come, Ser Jaime,” Brienne says, stepping into the breach. “A glass of wine and some refreshment, while I order a chamber made up for you.”

He looks at her appraisingly, as if re-evaluating her. “My lady,” he says, bowing his head.

**

There is an impromptu feast that night, hastily prepared with what they have on hand; if the Kingslayer thinks it poor fare compared to what he is used to at the king’s table, he does not say so. He is a courteous guest, though not an easy one; his edges are too sharp, and his manner is –

He is not a _pleasant_ man.

Conversation is stilted. Her husband is a good man, honest and straightforward, but he is not a courtier, and the Kingslayer makes him uneasy; they talk of the weather, and the crops, and of an upcoming tourney at Storm’s End.

“May I ask why you have come into the Stormlands?” her husband asks. “Are you on an errand from the king?”

There had been some controversy. They’d heard the rumours, even here – some matter of a quarrel in the streets, a young lordling from the Reach cut down without mercy.

The Kingslayer smiles, bright and serrated. “You might say that,” he says. “His Grace, in his infinite wisdom, sent me away from King’s Landing for a time. He told me not to come back until I’d found a mythical beast, such as a dragon or a unicorn.” He looks at Brienne. His eyes are filled with bright, wicked irony. “Perhaps my quest is finally at an end.”

Brienne draws in her breath. She looks at the Kingslayer, and then at her husband – but he will do nothing, she knows. What _can_ he do against a knight of the Kingsguard, against Tywin Lannister’s son?

Lifting her chin, Brienne takes up her own defence. “I don’t know what you mean, ser.”

“Do they not say that unicorns are the most singular of beasts? I have never seen a lady such as you, Lady Brienne.”

She flushes a horrible blotchy red. He only laughs.

**

“What is he doing here?” Brienne asks her husband, when they have retired to their chamber. She sits on the bed and takes off her shoes and stockings, unlacing her simple dress and pulling a billowy nightgown over her head. Her husband turns courteously away until she is fully dressed.

“He will be not stay long,” he says, trying to reassure her. “We have nothing to tempt him here.”

She huffs, remembering the wicked brightness of the Kingslayer’s green eyes, his terrible golden beauty. “He is dangerous.”

“It will not do to offend Casterly Rock,” her husband says. “But he will be gone soon, surely.”

She hopes so. She had found him – unsettling. Infuriating. He had stirred something within her that she did not recognise, some nameless restlessness –

A knight of the Kingsguard. A celebrated tourney knight. A notorious oathbreaker. A fabled figure from the king’s court, bright and vivid and out of place in her mundane, ordinary world.

“Come, lady wife,” her husband says with a shy, gentle smile. “Let’s forget the Kingslayer. Shall we try again for an heir?”

Yes. Their unsettling guest would be gone in the morning, and life would return to normal. His visit would be no more than a brief story to recount to their eventual grandchildren; the night the Kingslayer came to Nightsong, on his quest for a unicorn to bring back to King Robert’s court.

With an equally shy smile, she lies back on the bed and hitches her nightgown up around her waist. Her husband blows out the candles, and in the shadowed darkness they perform their marital duty – not without fumbling, but they have learned to laugh at the awkwardness of it. It’s sweet, and gentle, and they lie side by side afterwards, smiling at each other. He is a good husband, unfailingly kind and gentle to his ugly, lumbering wife; he treats her with respect and accords her all the dignity of her position, and she honours him for it. If the first time they lay together was awkward and a little painful, they have learned how to make it better.

There is a closeness and an intimacy to living together and sharing a bed, and if it’s not the great love she once dreamed of, it’s a much more solid foundation.

**

“Does your husband make you feel _that_?” the Kingslayer asks, afterwards.

They’re lying tangled together, sweat cooling on their bodies, Brienne’s heart beating thunderously still. Her eyes are wide, and shocked – she can’t quite believe what had happened.

The noises he had drawn from her, muffled by his calloused palm; the clawing, desperate need he had awakened in her – they had rutted together like animals in the field, blind to anything but their own desires.

She has a husband. A household to maintain. Duties and responsibilities and constraints.

He is a knight of the Kingsguard, sworn to chastity.

“This is – ” she draws in her breath. She can smell it still, the heady musk of their passion. “This is madness, ser. We cannot continue.”

He only looks at her, his smile wry. “Tell me to go, then,” he says.

She opens her mouth, but cannot bring herself to speak.

After a moment he moves to disentangle himself, slipping away –

“No,” she says abruptly, grasping his hand and tangling their fingers together, palm to palm. “Stay. Please.”

He stays. She kisses him again, and again. He moves over her, fills her again, and she closes her eyes and lets the madness wash over her like a dark tide, dragging her under and drowning her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She takes up so little space, hiding away in this remote castle on the edge of the Marches. An ugly woman, blessed with a kind husband and a quiet, happy life free of mockery and scorn.
> 
> And yet –
> 
> Jaime finds her _maddening_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all for the overwhelming response to the first chapter! Here is chapter 2.

Nightsong of the Singing Towers is beautiful, Jaime thinks idly.

It’s an entire world away from the filth and stench of King’s Landing, unbearable in the stifling summer heat. Robert’s drunken, blustering decree had been well-timed: Jaime had quarrelled with Cersei and spent long days turning his too-sharp tongue and filthy temper on anyone who crossed him. Filled with a restless, jaded discontent, he’d been only too glad to escape the court and its constant whispering.

_Poor Ser Reynard,_ the witless maids had whispered, sighing mournfully. _Such a beautiful boy, cut down by a heartless villain._

Their precious Ser Reynard had been a swaggering, boastful cunt who’d fancied himself a brilliant swordsman. Well. He’d lasted two passes before Jaime shoved a dagger through his eye.

“Ser Jaime?” his host asks, interrupting his reverie, “did you rest well? A fine day, is it not?”

Jaime turns to face Lord Bryn Caron of Nightsong. Son of Bryen. Husband of Brienne. Gods, the two of them had made a laughing jest of their names when they introduced themselves, and had thrown each other fond looks.

He’d not meant to spend more than a night under their roof. But then he’d seen Lady Brienne’s eyes –

“I dreamed of unicorns, Lord Bryn,” he replies.

The Lady of Nightsong coughs suddenly, flushing bright red. Her bright blue eyes flash a warning at him –

“Of course.” Lord Bryn looks puzzled. He’s just a boy, Jaime thinks. A boy of perhaps nine and ten, eager to please, with little experience of the world beyond his borders; he’s overawed by Jaime’s reputation and unsure how to respond to his barbed comments.

Unsure of how to get rid of him, as well. It’s been five days since Jaime came to Nightsong, and he shows no signs of wishing to depart.

His wife, though –

“Perhaps it was the gods sending you a vision, Ser Jaime,” she says.

“No doubt.” He smiles at her, showing his teeth.

Lady Brienne Caron is a hunting falcon who would much rather be a sparrow. She dresses in simple gowns and speaks in a soft, self-contained voice; she does not impose her presence but holds herself with a quiet, reserved dignity. She rules the castle and the servants with gentle, soft-spoken authority, and seems perfectly content. 

She takes up so little space, hiding away in this remote castle on the edge of the Marches. An ugly woman, blessed with a kind husband and a quiet, happy life free of mockery and scorn.

And yet –

Jaime finds her _maddening_.

“I have heard that the famous nightingale groves are beautiful even in daylight, Lady Brienne,” he says. “Perhaps you will show me, if your duties permit.”

The lady opens her mouth – no doubt to protest – but Lord Bryn speaks first. “Of course!” he says, with a hearty laugh. “Brienne loves to walk in the groves, don’t you my dear? She would be happy to show you, Ser Jaime.”

Lady Brienne only smiles. “Of course,” she replies, her eyes lowered demurely, her thoughts hidden.

He gives her a hearty pat – on the arm; she towers over him by a full head – and strolls off, pleased that he has dealt with the problem of his difficult guest’s entertainment for the day.

When her husband is gone, Lady Brienne raises her blue, blue eyes to Jaime’s and stares openly at him.

“If you do not wish to show me the groves,” Jaime says, “say so now, my lady.”

A flush of colour rises in her cheeks. She swallows.

“Come with me, ser,” she says. “I will show you.”

She leads the way into the gardens, well-tended and planted with cool, shady trees and flowers. It’s a warm day, and the smell of sun-warmed earth and greenery is heady on the air; bees drone and birds call, and the hustle and bustle of the castle seems far away. The further Jaime goes into the gardens, the deeper he falls under their spell, following her blue-gowned figure, until finally they come to a deep, shaded grove of overhanging trees, the grass dotted with white flowers.

It’s silent, save for the sighing of the wind and the distant sounds of the castle. Somewhere, a bird calls – not the liquid call of a nightingale, but sweet nonetheless.

She turns to face him, her eyes bright and wary.

They stare at each other in silence, Jaime’s heart beating swiftly.

Slowly, she slips her gown from her shoulders.

Enthralled, maddened, Jaime crosses to her and takes her in his arms, lying her down on the cool shaded grass, the tiny white flowers crushed beneath them –

They fuck in the fabled nightingale groves, with the earth and sky their only witness. Afterwards they lie tangled together, their hearts beating swiftly, staring into each other’s eyes.

**

He had never thought to _find_ a unicorn on this quest. But as the Lady of Nightsong blinks up at him, soft and well-fucked, he looks into her still-innocent eyes and sees –

Untold depths. A mystery deeper than any magic spell.

For a moment, he hesitates – and then he willingly surrenders to the madness. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two sennights, the Kingslayer – Jaime – spends at Nightsong.

Two sennights, the Kingslayer – Jaime – spends at Nightsong.

As his temper – and his tongue – grow sweeter, he becomes a much more agreeable guest: he goes hunting with Bryn, listening patiently to tales of the past glories of House Nightsong; he practices with him in the yard and tells his own tales of battles and tourneys and the Kingsguard.

Bryn, too, falls under his spell – notorious oathbreaker or no, there’s no denying his magnificent air.

He deliberately cultivates Bryn’s eager interest, and only smiles when Bryn invites him to stay for as long as he pleases.

Brienne watches from the sidelines as her husband trails at his heels like a puppy, and feels – what?

She is not sure.

**

They fuck, recklessly and furiously, seeking out hidden places and taking wild chances, pushing their luck to its breaking point. He tumbles her in the hayloft over the stables, in the warm and sweet-smelling hay; she pushes him into a concealed alcove just off the great hall, an old, fraying tapestry their only concealment – _hush,_ she whispers as she sinks to her knees before him. _You don’t want anyone to hear, do you?_

She grows adept at misdirecting the servants and sending her ladies on various errands.

One afternoon, though, they are almost caught. A young page boy, no more than 8 years old, almost stumbles across them – as they freeze in place waiting for the boy to pass them by, she feels his breathing quicken and his muscles coil with anticipation, and puts a restraining hand on his arm.

When the moment passes and the boy is gone, she turns to him, disquieted. “What would you have done, if he’d come upon us?”

He looks away, shrugs, elaborately casual. “I don’t know,” he says. “Would you have stopped me?”

“Jaime,” she says, biting her lip. “You can’t –”

“Who knows,” he says again. “The things I would do for l–”

He stops, draws in his breath. “Well. It’s a moot point, in any case.”

But the incident scares her, a little. It reminds her that the game they are playing could have dangerous consequences – not for him – it’s not he who will pay the price if they’re found out – but for her, and everything and everyone she loves. 

**

She’s safe and comfortable in this life she’s made for herself, with her boyish husband and the home he had brought her to; she’s respected, here, and no one mocks or sneers at her because she’s too-tall, too-ugly, too-graceless.

She doesn’t want to lose it.

**

“Run away with me,” he says one day. “We’ll go to Essos, and no one will be the wiser – we’ll marry, and live together openly.”

“Jaime,” she sighs fondly, stroking her hand through his curls. “You know that will never happen.”

**

But the most curious and unexpected thing to come of his visit – entirely apart from the madness that burns between them – comes after an afternoon spent watching him in the practice yard. He moves with such grace and skill, even to her untrained eye, that she is quite mesmerised – not just by his fierce beauty, but by the dance of the sword in his hands. 

“I saw you watching me,” he says, later, when they are alone. “And by me, I don’t mean myself, but my sword. It was almost demoralising.” He smiles lazily at her. “Do you have an interest in swordplay?”

“No,” she says immediately, shy and defensive. “It’s not seemly for a woman.”

He makes a snorting sound. “Women should learn how to defend themselves,” he says, his mouth growing flat and grim for a moment. “Their protectors are not always –”

He looks at her, suddenly, his eyes appraising. “Here,” he says, unhooking his sheathed sword from his sword belt and holding it out across his palms. “Take this.”

“Are you – Jaime, you’re not serious.”

“Go on,” he says. “Take it.”

Tentatively, she reaches out to grasp the sword. It’s heavy. Heavier than she had imagined. Slowly, hesitantly, she draws the blade partway from the sheath, hears the soft, hissing _shick_ –

“Oh,” she breathes, a thrill running down her spine at the sound.

She looks up to see him watching her, his eyes bright and avid. He takes the sword, puts it carefully aside – and then they crash together and fuck against the wall, Jaime holding her up off the ground and whispering fiercely in her ear. 

Afterwards, he says: “I will teach you to fight.”

She doesn’t stop to think. “Yes,” she breathes, remembering the bright, thrilling sound of an unsheathed blade. “Yes,” she says.

**

When Jaime finally leaves Nightsong, he leaves Brienne with two gifts: the first, a sword he had chosen from the armoury for her, sheathed in worn leather and now familiar to her hand; and the second –

Well. The second gift she discovers later, when her moon blood fails to arrive. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne faces a difficult choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm overwhelmed by the response to this story! Thank you all so much.

A child, she thinks.

A babe, with her husband’s dark hair and her blue eyes, or her fair hair and Bryn’s hazel eyes.

She and Bryn had been trying for an heir. They’d lain together on the night of the Kingslayer’s arrival. Surely –

But in her heart of hearts, she knows. The child is Jaime’s.

**

That night, in the chamber she shares with her husband, she turns to him with a shy smile.

“It’s been so busy of late!” she says. “It’s good to be quiet again.”

(In truth, the castle feels – flat – without Jaime’s presence. Drained of colour and vitality and reckless joy.)

Bryn throws himself down on the bed with a great sigh. “Well. He was very – do you know the Lannisters’ words, Brienne? _Hear me roar_.”

She laughs softly, lies down beside him. His hand seeks out hers, twines their fingers together.

“A story to tell our grandchildren in our old age,” she says, turning to face him and smiling. “Speaking of which–”

He smiles fondly at her. “Do you want to try again?”

This time, when he goes to blow out the candle, she stops him.

“My ladies told me of – a certain place on a woman’s body, husband,” she says. “They say that it can make the marital act even more pleasurable.”

He blushes bright red, but his eyes are bright and eager. “Oh,” he says, and “where?” 

Blushing herself, she guides his hand beneath her nightgown, to the thicket of curls between her legs and the tiny nubbin. “Here,” she says, “they say that if you play with this, it can bring great pleasure.”

He strokes and pets her eagerly, seeming genuinely delighted at the thought of pleasing her. He really is a sweet, gentle boy, she thinks – a far better husband than she deserves. 

When she lies back and hitches up her nightgown, when he comes over her and fits himself to her, she tries to keep his face in the forefront of her mind – but it’s Jaime’s face she sees, Jaime’s voice she hears whispering in her ear.

She comes with a choked cry. Afterwards they lie together, Bryn staring at her with wide, wondering eyes.

“You really are quite pretty,” he says. “At least, you are to me. You have the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

**

Not long after that, she tells him she is with child.

He is silent for a time, stunned. “A babe!” he says, delighted. “My child? I’m going to be a father?”

She swats him on the shoulder. “Whose else would it be, you fool?”

“I don’t know,” he says, still grinning and dazed. “The Kingslayer was a very handsome fellow, you know.”

She only laughs.

His eyes light up with excitement as the news slowly sinks in. “I’ll teach him to ride,” he says, “and to hold a sword, and to sing –” He catches her up and hugs her and would have whirled her around if he could have lifted her off her feet. “Oh Brienne,” he says, “you’ve made me the happiest of men.”

When he goes out and about his business that day, it is with a foolish grin stretched wide across his face. He tells everyone he meets that he is going to be a father, and the servants and household knights and all the denizens of the castle give him their warmest congratulations.

**

The women of the castle welcome her into their fold. They had been courteous to her from the moment of her arrival as a new bride, but now that she is carrying the heir to Nightsong they usher her into their world of babies and motherhood, a united sisterhood where cooks and midwives and washerwomen are as much an authority as septas and highborn matrons. They are full of advice and homely remedies and old sayings, and they look on her with benevolent approval.

For the first time in her life, she feels accepted and valued.

She basks in the warmth and security of it and tells herself that she does not wish for more. 

**

And then one day, perhaps three moons after his departure, Jaime returns.

“Ser Jaime!” Bryn cries, greeting him with a wide smile and an overly familiar clap on his shoulder. “You have returned from your wanderings. Have the unicorns proved elusive, then?”

Brienne is probably the only one who sees Jaime set his teeth, sees the temptation to snap and snarl at his host – but he only returns a light, jesting remark, retaining his mask of smiling courtesy.

“Lady Brienne,” he says, bowing to her. The sound of his voice is a shock. The sight of him once more taking up all the space in her mundane, familiar surroundings is –

“Have you heard the news?” Bryn announces gaily. “Before the year is out, Nightsong will have an heir!”

**

At the first opportunity, Jaime drags her into one of their old haunts, far from prying eyes and ears.

“Is it true?” he asks, his voice low and fierce – fiercer than she had ever heard it before. “Are you with child?” He grasps her hands. “Only say the word, and we’ll go to Essos – we’ll leave everything behind and start a new life, all three of us. And if your husband tries to stop us, I’ll kill him – I’ll kill everyone in the world, if only we can be together.”

He brings her hands up to his mouth, places a kiss on her open palms. The raw carnality of it makes her gasp and shudder.

This, she thinks, is the moment of choice.

She looks at him: beautiful, reckless, foolhardy - and dangerous. So willing to throw everything away for love. 

She wants him still, will always want him – but she has her place here. She has her reputation and her honour. Soon there will be a child. 

“You cannot win me by killing my husband," she says, with quiet, reserved dignity. “The child is his, not yours. And my place is here. With him.”

"You don't mean that," he says. "Tell me you don't mean it." He catches her around the waist, pulls her against him, the heat of his body pressed against her, his eyes bright wildfire green. He kisses her, hungry and devouring, almost rough in his passion.

She pushes him away.

“No,” she says clearly. “No, Jaime. I will not go with you.”

He stares at her, and she can see baffled anger and hurt in his eyes –

“You must leave,” she says, holding herself as straight as possible, her voice calm and steady. “My life is here, with my husband and our child.”

“If you think I’ll leave you to hide yourself away from the world, pretending to be content – ”

“You have no say in the way I choose to live my life!” she cries. “This is the life I want. The life I have chosen.”

He stares at her for a long, long time. “You’re wrong,” he says finally. “We don’t get to choose who we love.”

She holds herself very still.

“Go,” she says, her heart breaking within her.

**

At dawn the next day, he departs.

She does not watch him go. Instead, she goes back to her real life, to her husband and her people, and puts him out of her mind forever.

If he looks back as he rides away, searching in vain for one last glimpse of her, she never knows.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is faced with a dangerous temptation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all who have commented on this story so far. I am overwhelmed by the response! I've fallen a bit behind on my replies to comments, but I appreciate each and every one.

From the window of his room in the White Sword Tower, Jaime watches the sun come up over Blackwater Bay. It will be a beautiful day, he thinks, bright and fair – a perfect day for the Hand’s Tourney.

Once, he had delighted in the colour and pageantry of the tourney field. The snapping of the banners and the brazen calls of the trumpets. The brightly-clad knights and the extravagantly-gowned ladies, and the roaring acclaim of the crowd.

But ever since Brienne had sent him away, some of the joy and brightness had gone out of his world.

Who would he look to in the crowd, when he knocked his opponents out of their saddles? Who would he crown his Queen of Love and Beauty?

It had been his sister, once. But he and Cersei had grown apart after Joffrey’s birth; in later years they quarrelled more and more often. She’d taken other lovers, he knew, and he resented it bitterly. But what could he do? He is a Kingsguard, trapped by his vows and his secrets, and there’s no escaping either of them.

He’d found a unicorn at Nightsong. But unicorns thrive only in wild, remote places, and would wither and die in the poisonous air of King’s Landing. 

**

Some months ago Robert had finally given into Cersei’s demands and recalled Jaime from his exile. He had been – reluctant – to return. But left with no other choice, he had made his way back to the Red Keep and once more taken up his white cloak, resuming his empty, meaningless duty.

**

The cheering crowd, the feel of a good horse beneath him, and the familiar, well-known weight of a tourney lance in his hand brings back some of the old excitement. The speed and thrill of thundering towards his opponent, crouched in the saddle, his lance held perfectly steady – there’s nothing quite like it, save for fighting and fucking. 

The crash and shudder of impact travels up from his splintering lance and rocks him in his saddle, but he knows the feel of a perfect strike – his horse thunders to the other end of the lists, and he doesn’t need to turn to know that Ser Andar Royce tumbles from his saddle to land flat on his back, arms and legs flailing like an armoured beetle.

The crowd roars and cheers, and he raises a hand to acknowledge them.

He can’t help but steal a glance at the viewing stands, where Robert sits, drunk and rollicking – Cersei beside him, proud and beautiful and ice-cold.

In the lower tiers, his eye catches a flash of white hair and blue eyes, and he starts –

But the herald of the lists beckons, and Jaime makes his way towards him, the half-formed glimpse forgotten.

**

His next opponent is – a shock.

“Ser Jaime!” a cheerful voice calls out, and a man he had thought far, far away holds out his right arm in greeting. Armoured, his cloth of gold surcoat emblazoned with black nightingales, Lord Bryn Caron is a few years older than when Jaime departed Nightsong, but still every bit as open, pleasant and amiable as before.

“Lord Bryn,” Jaime says, clasping hands with him. “What brings you to King’s Landing?”

“Why, the Hand’s Tourney, of course,” he says, his face shining. “It is a grand adventure, is it not? I would not miss it for the world. In later years, they will speak of this tourney as they do of the great tourney at Harrenhal!” He smiles at Jaime. “You were there, ser, were you not?” 

The memory of that day is bitter in Jaime’s mouth, even now. “Yes,” he says shortly. “So I was.”

“Well. This will be a story to tell my son when he is older.”

“Your son,” Jaime manages to say. “I had not heard.”

“A strong, hearty boy, yes!” Lord Bryn’s eyes are shining. “With my wife’s white-fair hair, but the strangest thing – curls, if you can believe it, and bright green eyes.” He laughs heartily. “Brienne says her mother had eyes the exact same shade.”

The shock of it is – like a blow. Like a mortal wound, blood draining away and leaving him cold. He forces himself to smile and mouth empty pleasantries, all the while feeling the strange detachment he had first known at the foot of the Iron Throne, watching Rickard Stark roasted alive in his own armour.

Had he told Brienne of that? No. They had not spoken much, during their stolen hours together. They had only fucked, over and over, whispering formless endearments that meant nothing in the light of day. And at some point in those timeless interludes, they had made a child together.

Another son he cannot own, claimed by another unwitting husband.

He draws in a long breath, smiles and claps the unwitting husband on the shoulder. “Well. One day you will tell your son that you rode against the Kingslayer in the great Tourney of the Hand.”

_If you live to tell the tale,_ he tries not to think.

**

The impulse is – dangerous. He knows it. Certainly unchivalrous and dishonourable. Arthur Dayne would have been appalled. But the Sword of the Morning is long dead, and Jaime is alive and reviled, and really, what use has he for chivalry or honour?

**

The temptation is overwhelming. As he mounts his horse and takes up his lance, as he lowers his helm over his head and all outside stimuli is banished, he is left alone with his own self. He flatters himself that he is one of the best tourney knights in the Seven Kingdoms; he knows exactly where to place the lance so that it shatters his opponent’s gorget, or where on his helmet to strike in order to break his neck.

It would be all too easy. Just as killing Aerys had been easy – he had simply seized the old man and run him through, then slit his throat afterwards for good measure.

What came afterwards, though – _that_ had been difficult. 

Perhaps what came after this would be even worse.

He looks up at the stands again, searching for that half-remembered, elusive glimpse – _there_. With a shock, he sees her – in her simple blue gown, her eyes wide and her face pale. She is looking not at her husband, but at Jaime, and there is fear in her eyes –

_You cannot win me by killing my husband_ , she had said. So calm and steady and unyielding as she banished him from her presence.

Will he lose her forever, if he goes through with it?

He sees her mouth open, words spoken across a vast distance – _Jaime_ , she whispers. _No._

The trumpets call, and the herald makes the signal, and Jaime spurs his horse to a gallop, his heart beating frantically within him and his mind filled with memories. The sweet calling of the nightingales beneath a full moon. A woman in a blue dress, leading him onwards, ever onwards, forever elusive and unattainable.

The memory of her blue eyes looking up at him in soft wonder, hazy with desire but still somehow innocent.

The crash of impact comes as a shock; he reels in his saddle, dazed and shocked, not knowing where his lance had struck. As he reins his horse around he hears the crowd groan and cheer, and sees young lord Caron staggering to his feet, pulling off his helmet and waving ruefully to the crowd as his horse slows to a walk halfway down the field.

He smiles at Jaime, wide and unsuspecting. “I congratulate you, ser,” he cries. “What a tale I shall have to tell!”

Jaime looks up at the stands, and _she_ is there, watching him and smiling. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A parting conversation.

He’s sore and surly at the banquet that night, and he drinks too much – though not as much as Robert. He manages a semblance of good cheer, and drinks to Sandor Clegane’s victory with a smile; still, he slips away at the earliest opportunity, seeking clear air and a clearer head. 

He makes his way through the winding corridors, trailing his hand across the ancient stone walls, coming eventually to the battlements and the cool night air. The sounds of feasting and revelry rise up from the city and the castle bailey below, but he is alone, now, with no companion but his own thoughts.

A rustle of skirts. A quiet, calm presence. Even without turning, he knows.

He draws in a breath. The scent of her fills his lungs, sense-memory so powerful that for a heartbeat he finds himself back in the nightingale grove –

“Jaime,” she says.

He breathes out. Gathers up his composure. Turns. “Lady Brienne.”

She looks older than he remembers: a woman and a mother now, filled with quiet confidence. Her safe nest has been good to her, it seems. Perhaps she was right to send him away. 

“I will not thank you for not killing my husband today,” she says. “But – I know that you could have, and chose otherwise.”

Was it a choice? Jaime’s not so sure. Instinct, maybe. An unconscious desire. So many of his actions are driven not by thought but by his own reckless impulse. 

“Ah, well,” he says. “The things I do for love.”

She flinches. “Don’t say that.”

He only laughs. “I’ll say it if I please.” But he doesn’t push her; he doesn’t try and catch her in his arms.

She’ll only slip away again.

“Jaime,” she says, reaching out her hand to him. “We were playing with fire. And sooner or later, we would have been burned, badly – surely you can see that. And if we _had_ run away together – what then? All our actions have consequences.”

“Yes,” he says, “but unlike you, I was willing to pay the price.”

Her hand drops to her side. She stares at him with her solemn blue eyes.

Where does that leave them?

“Go, Lady Brienne,” he says finally. “Run back to your safe haven and wrap its walls around you, and hide away from the world if you can. But don’t forget what I taught you.” He unsheathes his long, narrow dagger, holds it out to her hilt first. “Sometimes even the strongest walls aren’t enough.”

Not even the walls of the Red Keep had saved Elia and her children.

Still. For a moment, she hesitates –

“What will you do,” he asks, “if armoured men storm your castle walls and come for you with swords drawn?”

She takes the dagger from him, her fingers curling around the hilt. Her eyes blaze. 

“I would kill them,” she vows fiercely. “I’d kill each and every one of them, to keep my family safe.”


End file.
